


Breaking Glass

by ChloShow



Series: Low [1]
Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Gen, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of March's friendships have been rocky, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Glass

He didn’t really have friends. Acquaintances and connections, sure. Not friends. He’d made that mistake during his early years on the force. After work, he and his shift buddies would drop by a bar for a drink or two or five before returning home to the missus. Drinking distracted from the tension of the job, blew off the steam built up from the various extracurricular activities of the LAPD: Taking money under the table from the various gangs for ‘immunity,’ pocketing dope from evidence, swiping a few stacks of cash from a drug bust.

Initially, March had his reservations, but in order to fit in (and not paint himself as a possible snitch), he dipped into the pot like everyone else. Hey, if everyone did it, what was the worst that could happen? Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard his mother say something about “jumping off a bridge if they rest of your friends did.” He didn’t so much _jump_ off the bridge with the rest of the cops; he tripped, fell, and splashed into the water with the rest of them.

And when they went out drinking, well—let’s just say that phrase “social lubricant” was invented for March. Sober, he was stiff, a little dorky even. But after a few drinks, he had the whole counter in fits of laughter. After a few more rounds followed the fights. His biggest mistake wasn’t pissing people off; it was word vomiting personal information without a filter _then_ pissing people off. That’s how his wife found out about his first couple affairs.

That’s how he started limiting his drinking buddies.

And one by one, his “buddies” disappeared like stars into the smoggy Los Angeles night.

Not all the people in his life disappeared voluntarily. Some of the guys truly enjoyed his company, and March pushed them out before they had the chance to stab him in the back. Sometimes he tried to push his wife out before he had the chance to hurt _her_ , but she had none of that, said she’d “leave if I damn well wanted to, but I don’t. You’re stuck with me, Holland March.”

Drinking wasn’t as fun by himself. Wasn’t even sure why he still drank at that point. Oh yeah, the whole “no friends” thing. He forgot he drank to forget about that.

**

They’d started off the evening with a couple of beers as they usually did. Holly had hidden all the hard liquor in the house, and unwinding after work at a bar was out of the question because Healy was a danger to anyone who looked at him funny when he was more than a few shots deep. Yeah, it was probably safest for them to be reclining on the back patio of the rent house. _Physically_ safest, anyway.

March had fallen into a routine of asking Healy back to the house for a couple drinks, echoing the good times he’d had on the force. Those raucous nights had made that stressful-ass job worthwhile. Why did he ever stop drinking with the other cops? Huh. His memory was faded, jumbled, and browned by the booze, the years, and the head injuries, but he was _sure_ there could be no downside to getting drunk with someone he worked with every night of the week. Speaking of that…

He knew Jackson was trying to stay sober. Every single time March suggested they have a few beers to loosen up, Jackson protested, citing his sobriety but he always caved in the end. Did that make him a bad person? Enabling an alcoholic? That wasn’t his goal, but that’s what he was doing. He wanted a drinking partner, a friend, and Jackson was the perfect guy to shoot the shit with. The only thing he had to contend with was that pesky nauseous feeling in his chest telling him to stop corrupting his friend, or maybe it was just heartburn. He had to remind himself to pop a couple Rolaids when Healy left, which turned out to be much sooner than he’d anticipated.

“Sorry, March, I gotta get going.” He set his half empty beer bottle down with as much self-control as he could muster; this had been a long time coming.

“So soon? We still have a whole case left. I don’t want to finish it off by myself.” March started with a guilt trip, but something told him he’d need to break out the big guns.

“You know you don’t have to finish it. Just save it for next time,” Healy changed his mind and lifted up his beer, finishing off a couple ounces and immediately feeling guilty, “Actually, I don’t think we should do this anymore. It’s been fun, but it’s time to stop.”

If March had seen this coming—no, even if March had seen this coming, it would’ve still felt like a stab to the gut. Failing to mask the hurt in his voice, he responded with the first line that popped into his mind, “You don’t need to stop. There’s nothing wrong with kicking back a few beers occasionally.”

“Everything would be fine if that were the case, but it’s not occasionally, March, it’s every damn day.” As Healy reached up to take another swig from his beer, a wave of regret sucker punched him, and in retaliation, he hurled the bottle into the empty swimming pool.

Oh, _there_ was the downside to socially binging: His friends realized they actually hated him. That’s why the scene felt vaguely familiar. Wasn’t there was a French term for that? Dayja voo or something? That sounded right.

Jackson’s chest heaved with a sigh as he counted to 10 and regained his composure. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean that up tomorrow when I’m sober. I need to get home.”

The words out of his mouth were a shock to March. More than a shock. They had to be a lie. He anticipated Jackson retrieving the broken bottle and using it to stab him in the back.

“Hey, if you’re tired of me, you can just admit it.” March delivered his passive aggressive answer then tipped back the dregs of his beer. He slipped another bottle out of the cardboard six-pack sleeve. His bottle opener didn’t have a grip, so the metal dug deep into his hand before the cap popped off. The pain focused his nebulous thoughts into a point, ready to fire back with all he had. Looking up at his friend, he didn’t see anger, rage, hatred, or any of the emotions he’d expected to deflect. No, Jackson was confused.

“What the fuck do you mean? I’m not tired of you. This isn’t _about_ you.” Healy felt his words land on unreceptive ears like they didn’t want to hear what he was saying.

“Bull _shit_ this isn’t about me,” March didn’t rise, but scraped his patio chair across the concrete to face his friend, “Every problem in my life starts with ‘Holl’ and ends with ‘and.’”

“I didn’t know you had such a thing against the Netherlands.” Jackson knew a good laugh would break March out of most funks, but the lousy joke hadn’t done the trick. Holland continued to fume emotionally and vent smoke from his 6th cigarette of the evening, so Jackson expounded. “Hey, this is about keeping a promise to myself,” he stalled, not wanting to hear himself admit his shame, “I don’t just drink with you either, ya know. Since December I’ve had scotch, whiskey, and tequila stocked in my fridge. Can’t even drink at the bar downstairs because I’m too damn embarrassed.”

March searched for a way to explain why this was still his fault, but his throat locked up like something sticky had fallen in between the cogs of a clock and prevented the machine from telling the time.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, Jackson found himself at the edge of the pool, his back to March. “I can’t even enjoy it. At least when I was 18, getting drunk felt fun, but now…? I know I should stop, so every sip feels like a mistake. A mistake I can’t stop making.”

“I know.” Guilt forced the sentence out of him. The nauseous feeling swirled in his chest while he kicked himself for letting his goddamn conscience take over.

“You know _what_?” Healy turned around to read March’s face and better understand what he’d heard.

“I know you hate drinking, and I know you’re trying to stop, but I enabled you. I’m an _enabler_. I couldn’t help it,” he flicked ash onto the patio and hit his leather shoes, “So, yeah, this is about me.”

“Not everything is about you.” Healy shook his head in disbelief, while March readied himself for a comeback.

“But this _is_ about—“

“Shut your mouth for one goddamn minute and _think_ would you Holland?” His voice rose, his fists clenched, and dammit, he’d tried so fucking hard not to let his anger get a handle on him. “I’m not going say I forgive you for knowingly making my life hell. I don’t, and that’s what you want. You want to feel better about yourself. So you can tell me you’re sorry, but I’d rather you keep your apologies to yourself and stop acting like a fucking jackass.”

Healy fought fair. That meant he always followed through with a fight, taking whatever blows dealt to him until there was a clear winner. After about 8 seconds and no reply from March, he took the silence as a sign that he’d won. But what kind of fucked-up victory was this? He twisted the backdoor’s knob in a vise grip, slammed the door behind him, and heard glass panes shattering onto concrete.

March remained seated. The property damage could wait for another day.

**

Work resumed as normal the next morning except that Jackson handed him an envelope with money to pay for the broken window.

“Take it. I’m serious.”

So March took the money, tucked it into his maroon suit pocket. Neither man delved into the issue any further. There was nothing more to be said.

While they cruised around the city following leads, Jackson wore his shades and all the telltale signs of a hangover, evidence that he’d gotten trashed after their fight. For once, March couldn’t talk his way out of a problem. The only solution was change, and as much as he _loved_ the idea of coming face-to-face with whatever the fuck was wrong with him, he resolved to try for Jackson’s sake.

**Author's Note:**

> This was me trying out a new way of characterizing March in my writing. I used some headcanons to tap into his psychological state and understand why he does the things that he does.


End file.
